


a sacrament that should be taken kneeling

by Azaphod



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accidental Subspace, Canon Asexual Character, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Hand Feeding, Multi, Office Party, Sleepy Sex, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: Sasha perks up, “Jon, are you inviting me on a date?” She barely keeps her delight in check.Jon cringes so deeply into the chair it tips back on him again. “It’s not—fine, yes, a date. To a work mandated party. With me.”She eyes the email one last time, putting on a show of great consideration. “Jonathan Sims,” she says seriously, “it would be an honor to go on a date with you to a work mandated party.”
Relationships: Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	a sacrament that should be taken kneeling

**Author's Note:**

> Righto, usual disclaimer time:
> 
> 1- There is no smut in the first chapter, only some sexually charged scenes but literally nothing happens. 
> 
> 2- Jon is an asexual man! I am an asexual author, do not come after me for writing him into sexual scenarios. Ace people can and do engage in sex, like it, and also like BDSM. 
> 
> 3- Both Sasha and Jon are trans in this fic! (I'm trans-masc, so if I do mess up anywhere writing Sasha, let me know.) There will be more details on words used for them when I post chapter two.

“A moment, Sasha?”

Sasha looks up from her work to find Jon clutching the door frame, white knuckled. It’s a bit early in the work day for an assignment from Jon, but she gestures him further into the room regardless. 

“Just—read this.” He walks stiffly up to her desk and thrusts out a sheet of paper for her and she takes it with a raised eyebrow, scanning it over critically. 

It’s an email— _Jon’s_ email. Jon had printed out one of his emails for her to read. She fights back a smile and tries to focus on the contents as Jon stands in front of her stiff as a board, fidgeting minutely with his cuffs. 

She’s not smiling by the time she finishes reading. 

“Wow,” she exclaims, peering up at his anxious face then back down at the printed signature of Elias Bouchard on the paper. “He sure knows how to make a non-mandatory party sound mandatory, doesn’t he.”

Jon collapses into the chair next to her desk and immediately flounders as the back gives out—it’s an old chair from Tim’s office, he’s in the habit of desecrating office chairs in the name of finding new unique ways to sit in them. He rights himself with a huff, and shoots her a peeved look. 

“I have to go, of course,” he says with an aggravated sigh, “that much is a given, but I—” here he looks away, suddenly shy, “er-that is to say, the email mentions, well, a plus one situation, should I be so inclined to have friends.”

Sasha perks up, “Jon, are you inviting me on a date?” She barely keeps her delight in check.

Jon cringes so deeply into the chair it tips back on him again. “It’s not—fine, yes, a date. To a work mandated party. With me.”

When he finally gathers the courage to look at her again, there’s a tightness around his eyes, to the rhythmic tap of his fingernails against the arm of the chair. He makes eye contact, breaks it, and repeats. As if he can’t bear to let her see the timid hope that lingers there, fragile as glass.

She eyes the email one last time, putting on a show of great consideration. “Jonathan Sims,” she says seriously, “it would be an honor to go on a date with you to a work mandated party.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, his whole body pulling away from her and closing off, arms drawing up tight—but then he freezes, and his frown evens out into unmasked bewilderment. It confuses her momentarily and then she realizes he was expecting a flat out rejection and confusion melts into pity. 

“Oh.” The tension eases out of him like an ebbing tide, leaving nothing but gratitude. “Thank you,” he says, and he flashes her a small, sincere smile that she returns in tenfold. 

— 

On the day of the party they meet at Jon’s flat, because it’s the closest to the Institute—technically, it’s soon to be _their_ flat, once her place’s lease is up. Half her things are already there, nestled in between Tim and Jon’s. The thought of it makes her smile.

She packs the clothes she needs in an extra bag and takes it with her, along with a pair of heels and some make up; knowing Jon, he won’t be ready by the time she gets there, a whole hour early at his request, she’ll have plenty of time to change.

When she gets there, Jon has already talked himself out of wearing the skirt he had picked out and no amount of cajoling or reassurances could sway him on the decision. She had rolled her eyes and pestered him into at least letting her do his make-up— _Nothing too flashy,” he had insisted, his hands balled up into fists of mirrored anxiety—_ as a compromise. 

He looks smart, handsome. The blazer and trousers he’d chosen are subdued in that drab academic way, but he had given into her wheedling and adorned one of her favorite dress shirts made of a rich, golden fabric that brought out the warm tones in his eyes and accentuated the subtle glow of his eye shadow. 

She loops their arms together as they leave, untangling Jon’s from across his chest. She pretends she can’t feel him shake.

— 

They stop in front of the building entrance, eyeing up the looming storeys with no small amount of trepidation. 

Sasha turns to look at Jon, “If they start talking about how much easier things are these days, we get to leave.” 

Jon chokes out a laugh, and he steps forward to lead them in.

Sasha expected to be immediately jumped by Elias, but he wasn't there to greet them at the front doors. They got as far as hanging up their coats and timidly immersing themselves in the stuffiness of wealth and supremacy complexes that choked the room before she realized that she couldn’t see anyone else from the other departments; not even the department Heads were here, they were the only ones. 

She didn’t have a chance to mention it to Jon. Elias crept up beside them, as if he had always been there, just out of sight with a beguiling smile. He had welcomed them warmly, then promptly introduced them to a wealthy donor hovering by his elbow, whose name Sasha forgot immediately. 

And then he just...kept doing it.

It’s a hard thing to get a read on Elias Bouchard, though that’s never stopped her from trying. It’s like any attempts of gleaning a bit of insight on the man slid like water off his oily coiffed hair. She couldn’t guess as to why he kept his sole focus on the two of them, when surely he had other matters of bureaucratic business to attend to. 

But no, he simply brought forth guest after guest to introduce them to, all with that faint smile that didn’t really reach his eyes. Sasha prided herself on her ability to withstand a fair amount of social strain, but at only half an hour into the party, she was beginning to reach a limit. 

Though she wasn’t the only one suffering. 

Jon had tacked on a pleasant smile for Elias at first, but after the first few introductions Jon’s smile started to fray into something approaching manic. He braces himself now for every interaction—no matter how light the small talk—as if expecting a bomb to go off from every limp handshake. 

He says the same opener for every single conversation. 

"Hello, I'm Jonathan Sim, the new Head Archivist for the Magnus Institute, and this is my partner and archival assistant, Sasha James." He monotones flatly, like he's reading directly from a flashcard. 

Eventually she can stomach the frozen expression of social terror on Jon’s face no longer. 

“Jon, would you come pick out some drinks with me?” she demands, plastering a polite, yet firm smile to her face that feels more like a grimace. 

Jon almost trips over himself in his haste to comply, eyeing up the next donor-to-be-introduced—an older man in a long coat that looked more appropriate for sailing then a party and who looked no happier at the prospect of speaking to them then they did. 

She steers them into the safety of the buffet, huddling by a table. They grasp the sticky tabletop like shipwreck victims clutching a buoy in the middle of a hostile ocean. 

“Sasha,” Jon says, but he stops mid-sentence. Or maybe that was all he meant to say. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, and he sends her a pained look. “look, I’ll grab us some drinks, alright? At least we can get sloshed while on the payroll.”

Jon’s pained expression only worsens, but he puts up no protest when Sasha darts away toward the bar. 

She orders in a haze from a bartender who frankly looks as miserable as she feels, though it’s nice to hold the cool plastic in her hands to ground herself. She braces herself to return to their table with a renewed confidence—only to find Jon has vanished from sight. 

She spins on the spot a little helplessly, probably sloshing the drinks around but she can’t find it in herself to care. She spots Elias at another table, engrossed in conversation with the same unhappy looking man, but she can’t make out Jon’s tall, lanky form among the people gathered around him, which is a slight relief. 

Her eyes dart over the fire exit and then snap back, catching a glimpse of a familiar, boring grey blazer slipping out the door. Sasha frowns down at her drinks, and with a sigh, she dumps them in one of the bins before she follows after him.

He's hunched by the stairs when she finds him. Shoulders turned up and away from her, though his face is tilted enough to the side for her to catch sight of the grim line of his mouth and the cigarette that balances between his lips. 

He stands there, shivering in the cold with an air of overwhelming— _over-dramatic_ —abject misery. 

"I thought you quit," she says, in way of greeting. 

Jon doesn't jump at the sound of her voice. He merely plucks the cigarette from his lips and waves it through the air with a flourish. "I _have_ , it's not lit, I don't even have a lighter on me anymore. It's—just something of a habitual comfort." 

He seems to curl even further inwards, cradling the cigarette to his chest like it will keep him warm. She joins him by the railing, leaning against the cold metal, letting her elbow knock into his. This time he does jump.

"We could make a break for it now," she suggests, laying the levity on thick. "sacrifice our coats and our jobs and run off to America together—all those old coots in there, they'd never catch us." 

Jon's laugh is a light and startled thing, half smothered into his sleeve like it's something to hide. "Don't let Tim hear your plans to leave him behind."

She snaps her fingers, sighing dramatically, “Ah, knew I was forgetting something.” 

They fall into silence. Jon twirls the cigarette around and around in his hand, his movements quick and twitchy. 

“You left me in there,” she starts, and he fumbles, almost dropping the cigarette. 

“I-” Jon’s face warps under guilt, pulling his mouth down into a grimace, “This has been a rubbish date.”

“I’ve genuinely had worse.”

“Oh no, did Tim take you paddle-boarding too?”

Sasha laughs, and some of the tension melts, slowly. “Really though, did something happen while I was gone? Did Elias come badger you?”

Jon hunches back over, and he’s almost inaudible when he mutters, “Elias can stuff it.”

"Jon!" Sasha exclaims. He ducks his head to avoid her startled yet _delighted_ gaze. 

“If I have to meet one more snobby, wealthy elite I will do something drastic, Sasha, I swear. And for _what?_ ” he suddenly explodes, and it’s her turn to jump, but in the blink of an eye he’s already shrunk back. “They must _know_. You know it, I know it— _Elias_ should know it, I’m not right for this job and _they’re waiting for me to fuck up_.”

Sasha studies his face, and sighs. “Putting aside your insistence of being under qualified—we’ll talk about it later, not here,” she warns, when it looks like Jon’s gearing up to argue. She casts a furtive glance back to the door and shudders; it feels wrong to bare their insecurities in the shadow of the Institute, it makes her feel watched. “Putting _that_ aside, I think you give Elias far too much credit. He’s just trying to show off his shiny new Archivist, rather then set you up for failure in front of the Institute’s investors.”

She reaches out to touch his arm, and he leans into her, relaxing by degrees. 

"It just feels like a-an elaborate prank," Jon mutters with vitriol. "Come one, come all to behold the fascinating spectacle of the new Head Archivist making a right fool of himself. Caviar, cigars, and gin and tonic included.”

Sasha snorts and then she’s laughing outright, wrapping her arm around him fully to keep herself from toppling over in her heels. She brings him in close, practically hugging. "Stop being so dramatic, you’re doing fine. Mr Archivist just turns into a robotic nightmare machine when he’s nervous." 

"'m not _nervous_ ," Jon mumbles into the sleeve of her shirt and she rolls her eyes. "but you are much better at all this then me—you’re quite wonderful, you know." 

"While you're very sweet and my ego appreciates it, that really isn't true." Sasha sighs, "I'm not sure how much more chit chat with those people I can manage," She straightens up, and coaxes him out of his coiled position. "not without my dearest partner in crime.” 

Jon smiles weakly, flushing with more then the cold. "Now I'm definitely telling Tim you said that." 

"No, you won't," she replies breezily. She tips her head toward the door. "C'mon, small talk awaits." 

Jon glares at the door. "Can I still take you up on that escaping to America plan," 

Sasha laughs, "It won't be that bad, this time you'll focus on me." 

Jon shoots her a critical look, like he’s analyzing her intently for all she’s worth. Whatever he finds must suffice. He drops the unlit cigarette to the ground and stubs it out. 

"Habits," he says, as way of explanation, and marches back inside.

— 

No one seemed to have noticed them leave and then reappear, and they blend back into the party without fanfare. Jon stays much closer to her side, almost like he thinks her short figure will hide all six-foot-something of him from scrutiny. 

They manage a few smiles and painfully awkward comments with donors that attempt conversation, and even find a few that aren’t all that bad to talk to in their own right. For the first time since they arrived, Sasha starts to relax.

Of course, this is when Elias Bouchard’s joint talents for appearing when you least expect him and for complicating matters unnecessarily shine. He spots them—spots _Jon_ —amid the guests and cuts through the thick of the party to reach them, heralded by several other...people behind him.

Her brain stutters over that. People. They _are_ people. Just very strange people, with their pallid faces and offset smiles. They speak softly, slowly, and something about it sets all the hairs on her arms standing on end, it leaves a ringing in her ears that she feels down to her bone. 

It’s almost impossible to tear her eyes away from them, like there’s nothing else but her and these strangers that make her feel so cold—she feels so alone. But she wrenches her head to the side and looks for Jon, surprised to find him still there beside her. 

He must be feeling whatever this is too. She watches him wind up tighter and tighter, shoulders hitching up around his ears as if willing away an onslaught of cold. He fixes his gaze to the middle distance ahead, unfocused, his breathing shallow.

He feels like he’s worlds away from her, even though he can’t be more then a couple feet. 

In a fit of desperation she steps in close to him, closer then what might be considered appropriate and he startles, like he too had forgotten about her presence. When he doesn’t move to pull away, she lifts her arm and places her hand to the back of his neck. 

The contact is dizzying and so _warm_ —her fingers tingle as if they had been numb with cold this entire time. It suffuses up her arm and into her chest, and she finds the murmur of the party around her comes back into focus. She pays it no mind, gently dipping her fingers under the collar of his shirt, rubbing her thumb through the wispy-soft hairs at the base of his skull.

Jon goes very, very still. 

Just when she’s about to retract—an apology already on her tongue—he leans minutely back into the pressure, seeking out the warmth just like her. She caresses his skin and feels the shiver that works down his spine. 

She’s seen Tim do this for Jon a few times, mostly at home but also at the office; when it’s been a bad day and Jon’s snapping and snarling at everyone regardless of their intentions. Tim would rest a hand there, leaning in close to murmur something soft and soothing.

 _It’s alright_ , she thinks, both to him and to herself. 

And almost like magic, he relaxes. Delicately unspooling under her touch, his arms unwinding from their stiff position and hanging loosely by his sides. The tightness coiled around him doesn’t disappear entirely, but his eyelids droop slightly and he breathes in and lets it out as a tremendous sigh. 

Elias’ guests drift away from them, floating seamlessly out of sight and out of mind. 

Sasha takes over for them the rest of the night and Jon seems content to let her talk for the both of them, only chiming in to offer his thoughts when prompted. He’s quiet but never distant, and her hand never falters. 

He trails by her side, watching passively as she samples some of the finger foods the staff have laid out. It’s the first time they’d had a chance to eat something without Elias breathing down their necks and she wastes no time taking advantage. 

"Jon," she says, with a light tug to his shirt collar to draw his attention to the food in her hand; a small dumpling with a rich filling, savory with a sweet aftertaste that she can’t help returning for more of. She knows Jon hasn’t touched any of the refreshment since they arrived, and given his track record, he’s probably skipped out on lunch as well. “Try this.”

Jon turns toward her with a wordless hum of interest. She proffers the bite of food out for him, held between two fingers. But instead of plucking it from her hand, he lists forward and takes it from her fingers with his mouth. 

Sasha moves on instinct, pressing it into his mouth so it doesn’t fall onto the floor, her fingertips brushing the corners of his lips. She lingers there, frozen in surprise. Jon doesn’t have such problems, his tongue darts out to wet the pads of her fingers, and this close to his face she can watch his pupils blow wide and dark. 

He holds her gaze, pressing a feather-light kiss to her fingertips.

Sasha’s hand, still hooked to his collar, spasms. Her fingers tangle in the soft tufts of his hair, pulling, her nails scraping his scalp. His eyelashes flutter rapidly and then he inhales sharply—and withdraws, not far, but the sudden absence leaves her reeling. 

"Oh," he rasps, with a voice like shattered glass. He clears his throat. "I, uhm. Hm—thank you, Sasha." 

Sasha’s voice has abandoned her entirely, so she nods. The moment can’t have spanned more then a few seconds, and she almost wonders if she had completely imagined it. She catches Jon wetting his lips, and there’s a high flush working it’s way over his cheeks. He won’t look her in the eye, and that’s damning evidence enough.

She wonders if she should be saying something, something flirty and teasing to defuse the sudden tension. But she can do nothing but recount the image of his lips brushing her fingers, his tongue— 

She sharply derails the thought, and picks up another dumpling for Jon. He takes it with his fingers, and she ignores the twinge of disappointment in her gut. 

— 

They manage another half an hour without incident, during which she has a long, boring conversation with an elderly investor about the differences in filing cabinet types. She’s at her limit, and when Jon suggests—so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it entirely—that they dip out, she leaps on the chance. 

Elias doesn’t look sad to see them go, he even goes on to say that he was surprised they stayed as long as they did—he had expected them to leave much, _much sooner_. Sasha bears it all with a smile while she imagines strangling the man with his green necktie. 

Sasha stuffs her pockets with stolen finger foods wrapped in napkins. They collect their coats and hail another cab.

Jon spends the cab ride staring out the window as the world passes by, daylight bleeding into darkening dusk. Every so often he spares her a sideways glance, like he’s checking she’s still there. He overlaps their hands where they rest on the empty seat between them, their fingers end up entangled rather then held together, his thumb stroking hers. 

— 

Sasha sighs as soon as they step through the door, letting the tension of societal performance drain away as she fumbles out of her heavy coat. She’s ready to curl up on the sofa and watch some terrible television with Jon until Tim comes home, maybe break out some of their wine since they never got the chance to return to the bar. 

She locks the front door and when she turns back around, Jon drops quietly to his knees in front of her.

His coat still hangs off his shoulder and he hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet. His fingers flex where they lay spread on his knees, smoothing over the fabric of his trousers and he tilts his head so softly up, his eyes dark, eyelashes fluttering with his slow, languid blinks. 

His lips part slightly, tongue peeking through to wet them, and Sasha's stomach flips. 

“Jon?” She says, like a question. The world feels suddenly off kilter and strange. “Oh,” she takes a good look at him, and a rush of realization hits her square in the chest. She’s _so_ stupid. “Oh, Jon...” 

She keeps her voice gentle, unwilling to startle him out of the blissful haze he’s entrenched in, but privately she’s cursing herself. She should have paid more attention to him, should have seen the cues—she _should_ have noticed. 

But she isn’t used to this, this was, in the most literal sense of the word, more of Tim’s scene. She’s only seen Jon go soft and vulnerable like this in established scenes, with Tim guiding her. It’s never just _happened_. 

Jon makes a faint almost hurt noise in the back of his throat. 

"It's alright," Sasha says soothingly, "what do you need, love?" 

She has no idea if Jon even knows what he wants right now, so muddled up in his thoughts—or lack thereof. She’s having a hard time thinking herself, with him folded neatly at her feet, gazing up adoringly like she’d hung the moon and stars for him. It sparks a low, simmering heat in her stomach, but she won’t ask him for that. This isn’t a scene, they haven’t discussed anything and that is _important_ , and if she somehow hurt him, she wouldn’t forgive herself. 

Jon shifts from side to side, drawing her focus back to him. His eyebrows furrow intensely, and he seems to think very, very hard for a long moment. Then his expression clears and he tips forward clumsily, and touches his fingers to her ankle, tugging. 

Curious, she lifts her leg slightly and Jon’s fingers slide down to work the strap of her heel, his movements fumbling but with a single-minded determination. He eases the shoe from her foot, placing it delicately next to him. 

His fingers return to her foot, digging into the aching muscles in her soles, working his way methodically up to the Achilles of her heel. The pressure is careful and attentive, easing the strain she had been ignoring for the past few hours. He does the same for the other heel, working all the tension out of her until she’s ready to join him there on the floor. 

Instead she praises him, “Thank you, Jon. You’re so sweet to take care of me,”

He makes a soft, happier noise at that. He ducks his head, resting his forehead against her thigh as he muffles another sound in her skin. His hands are cold where they grasp at her legs. She brushes her fingers through his carefully styled hair, listening to him breathe steady and deep. 

The intimacy they share in this moment feels like homecoming. A familiar, safe warmth that cradles them gently, as fragile as glass. She wants nothing more then to sink deeper into it, letting it carry them both far away. But they can’t stay like this forever.

She's regretful as she tugs loosely on his hair to get his attention. He moans softly, but she brushes aside the sharp skip of arousal it entices to say, in hushed tones, “Let’s get you into bed,” Jon grumbles wordlessly, pushing his face more insistently into her thigh as if to hide from the inevitable. “C’mon, you can cuddle me better there.” 

It’s enough of an incentive to get him on his feet, and he does so with a wince as the blood rushes back into his limbs, wobbling in place as he gets his bearings. Sasha makes a mental note to grab the ice pack once Jon is more cognizant. 

Jon is pliant as she leads him into the bedroom. He tries to crawl under the covers immediately, still in his dress clothes. Sasha stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Clothes, Jon.” Sasha reminds him. 

Jon frowns. He fumbles with his belt, clumsily shucking his trousers down and picking at his shirt buttons without much success. She leaves him to it, stripping out of her own clothes and into one of Tim’s discarded sleep shirts that swallows her. 

It’s far too early to go to bed now. Tim will be home in a couple hours with food and Sasha will need to help Jon scrub the remnants of his make up away. But for now exhaustion bares down heavily on her, so she sits next to Jon and plucks the rest of his buttons free with a fond smile.

When they finally wiggle him out of his binder and into another stolen shirt from Tim, Jon folds himself into bed without further protest, his eyes already heavy-lidded. He rolls his body right up against hers the moment she settles in next to him. She lets him tuck his head under her chin, his arms snaking around to pull her even closer as he breathes out a deep sigh.

Sasha winds a hand up into his hair again, and he sags deeper into her embrace. 

— 

When she opens her eyes again, the bedroom is dark and Jon is still curled around her, his nose an ice cold brand pressed into her collarbone. He’s lashed his arms around her like an octopus. His breathing is steady and slow, but when she cranes her neck down to glance at him, she finds him staring right back at her. 

They both startle, Jon’s eyes widen with a telltale deer in the headlights look, caught in the act. 

Sasha smiles after a beat, small and soft to match the quiet around them. “Hi there, back with us?”

Jon cringes, dipping his head down to burrow into her collar again, but not before she catches sight of his guilt-ridden expression.

“I-yes, present and accounted for...I, ah, should have said something sooner,” Sasha hums in agreement, but doesn’t respond. He barrels on, “That’s my fault, I was distracted by everything else—the party, Elias, and I didn’t notice until I was already in the thick of it and at that point I didn’t want to upset you and it felt so nice and you kept touching my neck, even Tim’s never done—”

“What haven’t I done?” calls a voice down the hallway, causing both of them to jump. There’s the sound of the front door closing and the lights in the hallway flick on. Tim appears a moment later, fresh from work and smiling down quizzically at them. “Did you come home and immediately fall asleep like a couple of old people? Was the party that much of a good time?”

Jon scowls, “The party was _fine_ , we’re not _that_ old—” while Sasha speaks over him; “The party sucked and I accidentally put Jon into subspace.”

“You— _Wow,_ Sasha James!” Tim laughs, clearly surprised. He looks between her and Jon, halfway out of his button up shirt and waggles his eyebrows. “Is that why you’re tuckered out like old people?” 

“No, nothing like that.” Sasha says, waving her hand dismissively. “He got on his knees literally as we got through the door, but that’s it.”

Jon makes a wheezing sound like he’s a deflating balloon, sinking further and further under the covers. Tim hops into bed with them, squeezing in beside Jon. He reaches across him to take her hand, kissing her knuckles delicately. 

“Jokes aside, you feeling alright?” he asks, still smiling faintly but there’s an edge of concern to it. “I don’t remember public submission being on the table for tonight’s events.” 

“It was an unexpected outcome, I assure you.” the lumpy blanket between them replies. 

Tim shoots her a long suffering, sort of fond look, then he raises his eyebrow. 

“I’m fine.” Sasha says impulsively. Deflection was a talent both her and Jon perfected, but Tim knows that. He waits with a patience that she envies to her core. “I _am_ fine, it just…I’m not used to any of this-” she squeezes Tim’s hand for emphasis, “-I didn’t know what to _do_ , and it scared me a little.”

Jon’s face peeks out, followed by his arm, searching around until he finds her other hand. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, entwining their fingers. 

“I know,” she says, squeezing his fingers back. 

“Clearly we could all do with another lesson in communication, so why don’t we at least do that over some food? You two look like you could do with something to eat anyways.” Tim suggests, patting Jon’s shoulder as he begins to heave himself up.

Sasha’s stomach rumbles at the prospect of food, but she’s still warm and comfortable in bed. Jon groans next to her, clearly thinking the same. When Tim tries to stand he lashes out an arm and hauls him back down, toppling into a heap. Tim laughs a bit helplessly, struggling to right himself. “I left the takeout on the counter you menace! It’s that really good shawarma from the place down the street—I even got extra garlic dip.” 

He waggles his eyebrows at that, and Sasha does stop to consider him for a split second. He begins to look hopeful, but then Jon burrows deeper into her arms and a wave of sleepy affection knocks her resolve to move right out the window. 

Tim looks betrayed when she grabs one of his arms to knock him further off balance. She pulls him in, sighing and complaining, yet smiling, until they’re so intertwined around each other there’s no hope of anyone going anywhere any time soon.

“Ten more minutes.” she promises, shutting her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter (18+ ONLY) @jackeringly


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